The betrayed women sit
on my street corner.
Nails ragged.
Lipstick smeared.
Eyes puffed.
Labels jut out from their collars
like flags, marking them

The sky turns scarlet
and you kiss me.
Your words become as wee birds.
They sing promises to the rising moon.
My legs lift up to greet you
and I'm lost in the great web
of want.

I hope those birds still perch
on my bedpost come morn.

Pris Campbell


Published in Durable Goods Two
Alethea Drehmer, Editor

Art: Ariane by George Frederick Watts

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